The gloomy morning was mostly uneventful after that. No one wanted to leave the mansion, but there was a common room on the third floor that had a giant flatscreen and a box of movies. The younger girls—Natalia, Elizaveta, and Mei—hunkered down on one of the dark leather couches with a bowl of popcorn. Katyusha and Michelle Mancham, a bombshell twenty-four year old fashion designer, sat by the room's fireplace and talked quietly, so as not to disturb the teenagers.

Katyusha's motherly instincts took over. "Girls, do you want me to bring you some drinks from downstairs?"

"Water, please," Elizaveta said, her eyes still on the screen.

Natalia nodded. "Two waters."

"I'll have a bit of coffee—I think Lukas made some," Mei added.

Michelle smiled nostalgically. "Oh, to be young again..."

Katyusha laughed quietly, moving away from the warm fire. "What are you talking about? You're plenty young."

"I guess," Michelle replied. "Anyway, I do think lunch should be ready soon, right? But, ugh—I hope this rain passes soon. It's so dark outside."

"I'm going to get drinks," Katyusha said. "Do you want anything, Miss Mancham?"

"If Mei was right, and there is any coffee, I'll take some, please."

Katyusha made her way down to the first floor. A few people were playing cards in the List Lounge, and Roderich, Ludwig, and Gilbert were sitting in another room on the second story, reading and solving a puzzle. Though Michelle had complained about the weather, Katyusha found the steady drum of the rain comforting.

When Katyusha came into the majestic Dining Hall, which had a door leading to the kitchen, she found Francis and another man sitting at the long table, talking.

"What's going on?" the Ukrainian woman questioned, stepping into the room. Her feet sank into the plush Turkish carpet, and she wondered how rich the owner of the mansion must've been.

Francis looked up. "Oh. Miss Braginskaya. Have you met Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo yet?"

"No. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Katyusha. Now, what's the matter? Why do you look so upset?"

"Ah, um, we found—" Francis broke off, his sentence unfinished sentence hanging in the air.

"Blood," Antonio whispered. His green eyes were wide in fear and confusion.

Katyusha froze. "Blood? Where?"

"In the kitchen," Francis said, his voice trembling. "I went in to start making lunch after looking at the bridge. There was blood all over the floor—everywhere—and one of the kitchen knives is missing. Something terrible has happened."

"But... isn't everyone still here?" Katyusha felt numb. "Isn't that true?"

Antonio lowered his eyes. "Miss Braginskaya, Travail is gone."

"And... I win." Lukas slapped his hand of cards down on the table. "Another round?"

"Ugh," Mathias complained, collapsing. "You always win, Bondevik. I give up. I suck."

A thin smile appeared on Berwald Oxenstierna's lips. "First rule, Mr. Køhler: Never admit you are wrong."

"Easy for you to say, you attorney," Mathias grumbled. "Fine, one more round. But I swear, if you—"

"Hey!"

Lukas, Mathias, and Berwald snapped their attention from the cards to the doorway of the List Lounge, where Eduard von Bock was standing.

"What's wrong?" Mathias asked, standing up and turning his phone off. He had hooked it up to a dock, and it had been playing his music for some background noise.

"Franics Bonnefoy wants everyone downstairs in the Dining Hall now. No exceptions."

"Bonnefoy... the cook, right?" Berwald asked, adjusting his glasses and gathering his cards back into a stack. "What does he want?"

Eduard shook his head. "Please, just go downstairs. I'm sorry."

The three Scandinavians exchanged unanimous puzzled looks and headed to the staircase, their card game forgotten.

Within fifteen minutes, everyone was in the Dining Hall, sitting at their marked seats and chatting quietly. Everyone was present. Every seat was filled.

But there was no Travail.

Francis stood up, waving his hand for silence. "Excusez-moi! Um, fellow members of the refreshment cycle. I have news."

The cavernous room quieted considerably, and alert eyes met Francis'.

"After I saw the bridge, I came inside to start working on lunch," Francis began, taking a deep breath. "I can see that you are all here. But the receptionist, Travail, is not. I believe she was murdered. When I came to the kitchen, there was blood on the floor, the walls, the counters. A kitchen knife is missing. That is all."

Murmurs spread through the crowd, terrified and upset.

Arthur raised a hand. "If I may speak? I'm no detective. I'm an author. But I do believe that, when we all went to look at the bridge, one person stayed behind." Arthur's emerald-colored eyes scanned the room. "Mr. Jones stayed in the kitchen. Wouldn't that be around the time...?"

Alfred jumped up from his chair. "Bullshit! I didn't murder anyone. I just went to get a snack! I'm sorry, I didn't realize eating was a federal crime!"

"Now, now," Francis said. "Please, let's calm down."

Berwald stood up. "Mr. Jones. Did you use the kitchen knife while you were in there?"

"Ja, Berwald, cross-examine the hell out of this situation," Mathias called.

"No," Alfred said. "I ate an apple."

"And why did you eat?" Berwald pressed.

"I was hungry."

"Right after breakfast?"

"Mr. Oxenstierna," Ivan interrupted. "I am well aware that you are a respectable and extremely qualified attorney-at-law. But Alfred Jones is a teenager, and as I'm sure even you know, teenagers must eat constantly due to growth spurts and changes."

Berwald sat back down. "We are trying to get information, Dr. Braginsky. No one is accusing Alfred."

"Well, Mr. Kirkland is," Alfred interjected angrily.

"If there is a murderer among us," Mei said shakily, "we need to know who it is."

"We don't even know for sure that Travail was murdered," Ivan added. "She doesn't stay at the mansion over night."

"But there's no way she could have left," Berwald argued. "The bridge is gone."

"Maybe she burned it down!" Katyusha exclaimed.

Alfred shook his head, his dark blond hair ruffling out of place. "That isn't possible. After everyone went to the bridge, I asked Ms. Travail to show me to the kitchen. She was still on the estate."

A clap of thunder shook the sky, and the lights flickered out. The candles on the table weren't lit, and without the light from the chandelier or the sun, the room was dark and shadowy, a drastic contrast from how bright it had been moments ago. The sound of rain intensified as a storm moved by overhead, and the room was silent with dread.

Natalia stood up. "I am going to my room."

"Lunch?" Francis asked nervously, his eyes adjusting to the dark.

"No." Natalia stood up, flipped her hair over her shoulder with artistic elegance, and walked out of the Dining Hall. Her steps were the quiet, graceful tread of a true figure skater. Despite her cool beauty, Natalia would be a formidable enemy.

The Belarusian teen made her way down the hallway until she came to the entry room, and without electricity, it wasn't so blinding. It was kind of eerie, actually.

Natalia paused. There was something on the ground, something next to the outline a big crate, and a strange smell—flowers?—enveloped the space. Natalia stepped closer, squinting through the dark, and then jerked back in alarm.

She couldn't help it. She was strong. She had to train seven hours a day. But that didn't keep her entire breakfast from coming up and spilling onto the floor. Natalia screamed hysterically and moved back until she hit the wall. She heard footsteps. The others would be there in seconds.

"No... no... no, no, no," Natalia cried over and over, resting her head between her knees. She was terrified and disgusted.

Next to the large crate, wearing a crown of blood red roses, was Travail's dead body.